( Takes a steeled stomach, watching in wait while blood seeps out like an oil spill and it's fresh, breathe it, fresh and metallic and raw like a blunt butcher's cut, feel it, wet and corrosive and thickly coagulated, taste it, ghost of it hard and prickling on the tongue, when Seishirou swallows, dry.
Sumeragi Subaru's viscous signature hangs like a noble web of drippings, and the cloth hungers for me, like open maws. It's the trouble of things: grant an object sentience, it grows its own appetites, its own lures. Blood now tasted will forever be craved.
This time, Seishirou palms the handkerchief, first claim clean and fleeting, the second scrunching cotton, violating stuttered gasps of lace. And conversationally, as if a petty rite of spiritual dissection didn't accelerate between them: )
She's a child. All children know how to do is seed ruin or die. ( And she's ill tempered and impatient and strong, too strong by far, big of bones and small of virtues. She's a Sumeragi hurricane in fallen New York's tea cup, absent the discipline of restriction.
There's a wound weeping on this Sumeragi's hand, where the price was paid and truth born. He has no means to mitigate it past the banal. And so, he nods carefully: )
Thank you. ( A professional sacrifice still calls for some recognition. ) Now. Did you see god?
no subject
Sumeragi Subaru's viscous signature hangs like a noble web of drippings, and the cloth hungers for me, like open maws. It's the trouble of things: grant an object sentience, it grows its own appetites, its own lures. Blood now tasted will forever be craved.
This time, Seishirou palms the handkerchief, first claim clean and fleeting, the second scrunching cotton, violating stuttered gasps of lace. And conversationally, as if a petty rite of spiritual dissection didn't accelerate between them: )
She's a child. All children know how to do is seed ruin or die. ( And she's ill tempered and impatient and strong, too strong by far, big of bones and small of virtues. She's a Sumeragi hurricane in fallen New York's tea cup, absent the discipline of restriction.
There's a wound weeping on this Sumeragi's hand, where the price was paid and truth born. He has no means to mitigate it past the banal. And so, he nods carefully: )
Thank you. ( A professional sacrifice still calls for some recognition. ) Now. Did you see god?